


I'll Be Waiting When You Call

by context_please



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Breaking from cliché funeral scenes, Canon Compliant, Doesn't need to rain to be depressing, Gen, Post-Avengers (2012), Team Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4289481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/context_please/pseuds/context_please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony hates funerals - why would he go to Phil's?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Waiting When You Call

**Author's Note:**

> Again - another old piece.  
> Movie funerals almost always take place in the rain, so I decided to do the complete opposite. In Australia, a funeral is pretty much always going to take place when it's disgustingly sunny.

Phil Coulson’s funeral took place two weeks after the Battle.

Tony knew that Fury would instantly have given the man a grandiose funeral, but even in death, Phil was like a physical presence, pressing down on them all. They all knew that Phil wouldn’t have wanted to be placed above everybody else – to be treated as if his body was somehow better, more important, than those he had tried to protect. And so the funeral had waited, gone through a real funeral home, and the graveyard was going to be depressingly full, people grieving those laid to rest. And yet, through it all, Agent’s presence was like a physical thing. Sometimes the pressure felt like a good thing, another incremental weight added to his mess of a chest, warm and comforting. Other times, Tony could practically feel himself being crushed under heavy condemnation.

He’d be lying if he said now wasn’t one of those times.

See, Tony Stark _did not_ do funerals. He’d been to many over the course of his life, a long list that just kept growing and growing, much to his liver’s protest. There was one funeral in particular that had stuck with him, and considering how his parents had treated him, he was surprised _that_ would be the one he remembered in Technicolor and Dolby surround sound. But then, the universe really hated Tony like that.

The ironic thing about it, Tony mused as he took another swig of scotch straight from the bottle, was that the only person that had ever seemed to _really matter_ had never been given the privilege of a funeral. No, the one person who had mattered, who had _seen_ Tony for who he really was (more than just a war monger or a genius; Yinsen had seen his _potential_ to be a better man) had died in the dust, the stench of fear heavy in his nostrils, screams cloying in the air, and the slickness of his own blood running through his fingers. He had deserved to be buried, at least, and he hadn’t even gotten that.

Maybe that was part of the reason Tony didn’t go to the funeral, and maybe it was also the fact that he wanted to grieve on his own. So, he had pulled on a huge jumper with polar fleece inside and cracked out the scotch, sitting on the thick rug pushed up against the edge of his couch, leaning his back against it instead of using the couch for its functional purpose. The cushion was soft against his spine, the rug thick underneath his bare feet, hand clenching tightly around the bottle of scotch, legs sprawled everywhere.

Tony had already passed the destructive phase of what most people would call ‘emotional constipation’, but was definitely grief. Coupled with the sleepless nights filled with PTSD, that phase had quickly passed into the next – creativity and endless nights in his workshop. If he was honest with himself, Tony had never really grieved anybody past that stage. Yet, there he was, finally getting onto the next stage of grief, something he’d never done before.

So there Tony sat, drinking scotch and reminiscing, remembering Agent and Phil and Coulson in all his incarnations, all his surprisingly complex facets. The more time he spent in introverted memories, the more he realized that Phil had been a truly complex man, but he had always been good. He had always been a constant in Tony’s ever-changing life.

In some ways, Phil had inadvertently become one of Tony’s only friends. And he’d never realized it until Phil was gone. ‘Don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone,’ Tony murmured aloud, taking another draught.

Tony turned his head toward the window, gazing out onto the city. The sky was a sickening blue, clouds few and far between, little wisps like the smudge of motor oil on skin. The city was warm and alive below him, reveling in the beautiful day – a break from New York’s usual rainy weather.

It was too warm outside; too light, too vibrant, too alive. It should have been pouring down, battering the sides of the tower and soaking the grave they’d put Phil –

There was something about the warmth that felt wrong – it _should_ have been miserable, wet, a day that made people want to stay inside and drink, but was the opposite instead. It was too cheerful for what was happening today. Almost as if the universe was happy that Phil was dead.

(Tony couldn’t help but remember that no one had cried for Yinsen, no one except him. He thought that maybe he should grieve Yinsen this way too, because he’d never had any one else to honor him.

[Tony had a whole meaningless nation.])

His attention was still on the mercilessly cheerful day outside when the doors slid open, quiet shuffling filling the room, fabric scraping against fabric. He didn’t make to look at them, instead bringing the scotch back up to his lips.

The couch at his back shifted as someone’s weight dropped into it, and then another. In his peripheral vision, Clint settled into the armchair, Natasha perching on the arm and leaning into him, subconsciously seeking support. Clint’s eyes were red and Natasha’s watery – Phil’s death had probably hit them harder than it had Tony.

(It was nice to know that other people grieved Phil too.)

A thump sounded off to his left, and the creaking of fabric as someone sat on the floor. The whole gang was here.

Tony brought the bottle to his lips again, took a long chug, savoring the burn of alcohol in his throat as it blazed towards his stomach. Liver damage felt pretty good right now. Looking down at the bottle, he gave a moment’s thought before turning, surveying the Avengers.

They made a miserable sight.

His teammates had this shell-shocked expression, eyes unfocused and distant, as if they couldn’t believe what had happened, even two weeks after they had fought the Battle in Phil’s memory. Even Thor was wearing a suit, lines long and elegant, hammer sitting next to him as always. They all looked rumpled, worn; tired right down to the bone and sick of bearing the hate of the universe. Honestly, they appeared as if they would never be able to focus properly again, and Tony was not better. Everything seemed as if it were being processed through a soft filter, a surrealistic effect of his own grief.

Tony passed the bottle on. Steve’s motions were automatic, bringing it up, swallowing a mouthful, handing it to Bruce.

The bottle made its way around the room, traceable by the rustling of fabric as it progressed.

His own movement brought him up, his mind just breaching the barrier of awareness enough to feel the warmth of the jumper around him, the feel of the shaggy carpet at his feet, the heavy weight of tears tracking their way down his face, silent and unheeded. His jumper was sticky at the neck and his cheeks tight, salt water still running down his face.

Tony closed his eyes and leant his head back against the seat of the couch. His chest was aching, the atmosphere in the room pressing down on him; the grief he finally allowed himself to feel, equally so.

When he opened his eyes, the ceiling greeted him, as grey and featureless as ever, a constant in the overly bright room, the room stifled by grief.

He opened his mouth, a sigh worming out.

Then sang, in a quiet rhythm that barely breeched the blanket of silence draped over the room;

‘ _And don’t it always seem to go… you don’t know what you got, ‘til it’s gone_.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Fall at Your Feet by Crowded House.  
> Tony is singing Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell.


End file.
